


Then Purple-Pink Skies

by RedheadAmongWolves



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A Winter's Ball (Hamilton), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, Flirting, Fluff, Lawyers, Look ma I wrote banter, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, a light sprinkling of angst, but we barely discuss lawyerly things, for flavor, literally falling for each other, wait ma no don't look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves
Summary: As Alex’s brain reboots, his brain-to-mouth filter lags just a second behind, so he says the first thing that pops in his head. “I’ve always wanted to be swept off my feet, but I didn’t mean it quite so literally.”A Modern AU where Alexander meets one Thomas Jefferson at Winter’s Ball.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 256





	Then Purple-Pink Skies

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i had a blast writing this
> 
> title from taylor swift’s “invisible string” because you KNOW i wrote this whole thing while listening to folklore on repeat, and honestly what a perfect song for happy!jamilton ugh. i even had the whole pinky-purple thing written BEFORE i realized the song had that line see it was fate

Winter’s Ball is just an annual excuse for the whole office to get plastered on company dime, barely making it different from every other Friday night when they get plastered on their own dimes that they make from said company, only now they’re in fancy outfits. 

The venue is nicer, too, than their usual dive bars. The firm has commandeered a ballroom at an upscale hotel, all marbled walls and crystal chandeliers, so their shoes aren’t sticking to a tacky floor that’s more acquainted with cocktails than cleaning solution, and there’s an honest to god mini orchestra playing in a corner, rather than a busted jukebox that someone’s put _What’s New Pussycat?_ on a thousand times in a row because they think they’re being original. And even though there’s a dance floor, this isn’t really a dancing affair. More a place for glad-handing and arranging times to go golfing to discuss nefarious lawyerly things. 

That’s bullshit too— the lawyers at Washington, Knox, & Greene are notorious for their pro bono bleeding hearts. The most nefarious things their company gets up to is Peggy stealing pink post-it notes from the supply closet, that they only order in the first place because she likes them.

The same cannot be said for their other party guests tonight, however— not that they don’t like pink post-its, but that they might in fact be up to nefarious things. John has already given Alex a word of warning about some of the characters they’ll be brushing shoulders with, whom John knows from his more hands-on activism days. 

“Let’s just say if you find yourself blinded by the color pink, run,” he huffs. So maybe they do like pink post-its. 

Though the night is young, Alex’s already a couple drinks in and is pleasantly tipsy, but he’s blaming Lafayette for that one, because the Frenchman has valiantly made it his mission to get Washington at least slightly buzzed tonight, a tradition repeated each year, and each year in vain, but everyone still joins in matching drinks in a show of camaraderie. The joke, as always, is on them, because Washington must have a wooden leg or teeth or something, because Laf has descended into singing the French national anthem and John is threatening to fight a napkin dispenser, while Washington hasn’t swayed once. 

Their little ragtag team has a reputation of being on the wilder side, unafraid and unrepentant inside the courtroom and out of it, so they’re getting their fair share of bemused and annoyed glares. No one will ever say a word against them, though, since they’re Washington’s beloved misfits, and yes they may be rowdy at best and tempestuous at worst, but they get the job done, and done well. 

Washington excuses himself with a gleam in his eye that says he knows exactly what he’s done, so Herc begins trying to bribe Laf into drinking water, and John and Alex start debating how many balled up straw wrappers they can flick at Burr at the end of the bar till his composure cracks, but Angelica appears before they can put their artillery in action. She’s still the most composed of them all, the slight frizz of her updo the only sign that she’s a little buzzed. She looks as stunning as ever, in a slinky gown that leaves her shoulders bare and shimmering with her body lotion. Alex beams at her, while John surreptitiously sweeps away the evidence of their paper weaponry.

She grabs Alex’s wrist. “C’mon, I want to introduce you to someone.”

But Laf, half-draped over the bar, slaps a hand down on top of hers. “ _Non non non_ ,” he protests. “ _Mon petit_ Alexander must stay here, until my friend arrives— he promised.” 

Alex gives Angelica an apologetic smile. “He’s right, I did.” He’s been hearing all about Laf’s mysterious friend from France for the past month, upon learning he’d be in attendance this evening on a brief recall from Paris— everything but his name, which Laf has somehow avoided giving every time Alex’s asked. “But bring this person to me, I won’t leave. Scout’s honor,” he tells her. 

“You were never a Boy Scout,” she scowls, but there’s no heat to it. “Fine, fine, I’ll be right back.” She whirls away in a blur of honey-colored fabric, her perfume lingering in the air. 

“ _Mon dieu_ , but I love to watch her leave,” Laf sighs, and Herc cuffs him upside the head. Alex laughs, though he’s inclined to agree. 

“Where is this friend of yours?” Alex asks Laf, which earns him a dark look from John that he doesn’t know how to interpret. “Does he always show up to parties late?”

“ _Fashionably_ late,” Laf answers, with a roll of his eyes, “but _oui_.” So far Alex’s sussed out that this guy’s an international relations lawyer, affiliated with one of D.C. firms in league with Washington & co. but used as an ambassador because he’s fluent in a gazillion languages. He has the same taste in books and movies and _The West Wing_ as Alex, plays the violin, and likes long walks on the beach, presumably. “You will get along _immédiatement_ ,” Laf tells him for the fiftieth time. “You are so much alike.”

“Do we want more shots? I think we want more shots,” John interjects suddenly. “Look, they have picklebacks!” He waves down the bartender, and then there’s a cluster of tiny glasses before them, and even Herc grumbles before taking one, giving up on leaving tonight with any dignity. 

The alcohol is a hot burn down Alex’s throat as he throws it back, chased by the sharp tang of the pickle juice. “God, who invented that,” he wrinkles his nose. 

“God did,” Herc grumbles, “because he hates us.”

This sends Laf into another laughing fit, and Alex claps a hand on John’s shoulder. “Well, since there’s no sign of this guy, I’m gonna find the bathroom,” he says. “Tell Angelica I’ll be back in a sec.”

“But your Scout’s honor!” Laf objects.

“I wasn’t a Scout,” Alex shoots back with a wink as he goes. 

He finds his way to the bathroom easily enough, sticking along the walls of the room and making note of the small staircase near the entrance, a handful of steps dotted with mingling guests, that leads back up to the hall leading to the lobby. In the bathroom, he has to sidestep a couple making out against the sinks, making eye contact with one participant— Seabury, of all people— and giving him a big toothy smile as he washes his hands, delighted when Seabury turns bright red

On his way back, Alex detours again to the staircase, skipping up a few steps up so he’s a head or two above the crowd. He’s always liked vantage points, where he can stand and survey, take stock. He likes _knowing_ — who is talking to who, who is avoiding who, who is making eyes at who and hoping no one notices. Alex didn’t get this far in his career without a decent amount of brown-nosing, because there’s power and intimidation when you catch people off guard with just how much you’ve been paying attention, so a staircase or a balcony or— one memorable night— standing on a bar top is always appreciated. 

It’s not because he’s short. It’s not. 

He spots his friends still by the bar, where Herc is now using the napkins, liberated from their dispenser, to make tiny outfits for their hors d'oeuvres forks, John and Laf helping to make hats out of a pile of drink umbrellas that the defeated-looking bartender has surrendered. Then there’s Washington, near the middle of the room and surrounded by a group of executives, but he looks up just as Alex turns his attention to him, because the man’s omnipotent, and he sends Alex a wry smile and arched eyebrow, which Alex responds to with a grin. Monday morning, Washington will want any information Alex manages to scrounge up tonight, and Alex is more than happy to oblige. Even if Washington doesn’t intend to _use_ any of the gossip, he likes to be in the know, too. 

And there’s Angelica, a dark haired woman at her side, making their way back to the bar where Alex should be waiting for them. He spins to descend the stairs and hopefully beat them to it, but as he does his dumb shiny shoe slides on the marble, and he damn near slips off the step, scrambling to try to catch himself before he faceplants but his flailing arms find only air, when a hand shoots out of nowhere and grabs his arm, steadying him and wrenching him back to sure footing. 

Alex turns to thank his savior, and has to tilt his head to stare up at a _very_ handsome man, standing the step above him, staring back. A man in an atrociously brightly colored jacket. 

_Is that pink?_ It’s more on the purple side, Alex decides, which is why he doesn’t heed John’s prior warning and split. Sure, that’s it. It has nothing to do with the fact that this guy looks like he’s stepped directly off the pages of _GQ_. His face is framed by a wild mane of curls that Alex very much wants to sink his fingers into, and his eyes are _glittering_ as they watch him back.

As Alex’s brain reboots, his brain-to-mouth filter lags just a second behind, so he says the first thing that pops in his head. “I’ve always wanted to be swept off my feet, but I didn’t mean it quite so literally.”

The man’s eyebrows raise, and Alex mentally swears, wondering if he’s about to endure a very awkward straight man’s bluster, or maybe get clocked in the face, but at the same time, this guy’s suit is _way_ too flamboyant for him to be swinging completely for the other team, and just as Alex is planning his escape route back his friends, the man’s face splits into the widest, most brilliant smile, and the air leaves Alex’s lungs all in a rush for a second time. 

“And I never thought I’d see an angel fall, but here we are.” 

Alex, because fuck his life, _blushes_ , which just makes the dude smile wider. 

The man is still holding onto Alex’s arm, which they realize at the same time. He lets go, and Alex feels the loss like the cold. 

So he sticks out his hand. “Alex.” The man takes it.

“Thomas.”

Alex darts a glance over Thomas’ shoulder, towards the direction of the lobby. The skin of Thomas’ palm is a little cool, so he must’ve just come in from the evening air. “You with the event, or are you crashing?” 

“This would be an incredibly boring event to crash,” Thomas observes. He has a bit of a Southern drawl to his words, which does funny things to Alex’s insides. 

“There’s an open bar.”

“Valid point. Though I guess that means I can’t buy you a drink.” 

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate the effort.”

They grin at each other a moment more. Alex has the fleeting thought that Laf’s going to be sincerely disappointed if he thinks Alex is going to spare any thought for his mysterious friend now that he’s met Thomas.

Thomas’ grin falters for a split second, though, and a tiny crease appears between his eyes, for which Alex’s mind supplies the helpful adjective _adorable_. 

“Unfortunately I do have to go tell my boss that I’ve arrived,” he says, his reluctance evident in his voice, “but— I just might find myself at that open bar after, if you’re so inclined to find yourself there, too.” 

Alex suddenly remembers Angelica, and squishes his own wince of guilt. “I’d be very much so inclined,” he tells Thomas, and the man opens his mouth briefly like he’s going to say something else, but he closes it and gives a little bow— _adorable!_ — before hurrying away. You bet your ass Alex watches him go, and he’s rewarded with a flash of teeth when Thomas throws a backward glance over his shoulder. 

His heart is still tap-dancing in his chest as he follows along the walls back to the bar, where he discovers he’s too late. Angelica and her guest are already standing at his vacated barstool, Angelica glaring daggers at him. 

He gives his best sheepish grin as she strides towards him and loops her arm in his. “Oh, no big deal,” she growls under her breath, tugging him over. “I’m just over here about to change your life.” 

Again, he thinks, just a bit too late. Someone’s already beaten her to the punch. 

“Alexander,” Angelica says as they approach the girl. “Meet my sister, Eliza.” 

Eliza is just as beautiful as her sister, radiant in teal, and Alex doesn’t have to fake his smile. “Pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, as he takes her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve heard so much.” 

“As have I,” Alex tells her, which is true, he’s heard enough stories from Peggy and Angelica about their lovable middle sister, “though it seems to be paling in comparison to the real thing.”

Eliza blushes very prettily. They fall into conversation about her work, having founded a nonprofit that’s working to improve the foster system, an effort Alex is a big supporter of, from his personal experience in the system. Angelica excuses herself at some point with the excuse of extracting Peggy from some handsy paralegal, and Alex doesn’t mind being left alone with Eliza. 

In truth, he knows exactly what Angelica’s doing, how she’s hoping this will play out: she’s been on the sidelines for years watching the revolving door of Alex’s relationships, so she invites her sister to the Ball, thinking she’s found the missing key ingredient of stability and intelligence and kindness, which is all very well and lovely, and Alex appreciates the sentiment deeply— and he’s sure Eliza is going to be a lifelong friend-- but it’s not what Alex _needs_. He doesn’t need someone to temper the candle he’s burning at both ends— he needs a flame to rival his own, _stoke_ his, understand and appreciate his passion, the ferocity he can’t just quell, because he needs it to _live_. 

Maybe Eliza would have been perfect for him in another life, another timeline. But Alex knows lightning when it strikes. He can practically _smell_ the ozone. 

There’s a bit of joyful ruckus further down the bar, where John and Laf and Herc are, whiskey sloshing to the bar top as glasses are raised, but Alex can’t see around Eliza. Angelica reappears with Peggy, who looks mildly disgruntled, leading him to wonder who was being saved from whom, when Laf yells for Alex.

“ _Mon ami!_ Come, come, you must meet my friend!”

“Has he finally deigned to show up?” Alex calls back, with a wink to Eliza as she politely steps aside, and that’s when Alex sees… pinky-purple. And the wide, surprised eyes of Thomas. Alex’s heart ricochets against his ribs.

Which is when Laf decides to go and ruin it all. “Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson.” 

_Now_ he understands why Laf neglected to tell Alex his friend’s name. Alex is _very much so, painfully_ aware of who Thomas Jefferson is, because, while having never seen his face, he’s been engaged in several heated email chains with the man for _months_ , beginning after a dispute about a case between their rivaling law firms. He should’ve _known_ this was who Laf meant— during a particularly indignant patch in their disagreements, Alex had charmed Jefferson’s mailing address out of a confused intern to send him a greeting card that just read _You’re A Dick_ , and the address had been _Paris._ How could he be so _blind_.

Laf knows about their arguments, but probably not the heights it has climbed to, let alone the greeting card thing, which is why he’d probably thought of this scheme to try and mend fences, painting this picture of a lovely, brilliant person that is the _complete_ opposite from the image Alex’s been tossing imaginary darts at for the past four months. 

Jefferson seems to be reaching this conclusion at the same time, his surprised delight morphing into a disbelieving incredulity, 

“Thomas _Jefferson?_ ” Alex grits out, and he can see John in his periphery mouth a silent _“thank you!”_ up to the sky, causing Herc to whack his arm, meaning they've probably both been in the know the whole time. John hates Jefferson as much as Alex. 

“Hamilton,” Jefferson says, as his expression turns smarmy. “My, how the turns have tabled.”

Laf pats Jefferson’s chest a few times, giving the impression of a lazy cat. “Now, now,” he admonishes his friend, “you promised to behave, _mon ami_. Alex is the one I’ve been telling you about, that you were very excited to meet, remember?” 

And this— is news to Alex. He hadn’t figured Laf has been telling Jefferson about him the way he’s been telling Alex. He watches as Jefferson’s smirk dims ever so slightly, cheeks coloring with a light dusting of… a _blush?_

A traitorous part of his brain reminds him again how handsome Thomas Jefferson is. He tries to shake the thought from his head. Handsome or not, saving Alex from face-planting or not, Thomas Jefferson is an _asshole_ , and there’s nothing that can change Alex’s opinion of him.

 _But,_ that traitorous little voice whispers, _weren’t you just saying you were looking for someone who could stoke your fires? Didn’t you just say you could smell the lightning?_

Before Alex can open his mouth to retort, a deep voice cuts through their conversation. _Oh no,_ Alex begs whatever merciful gods are looking down on them tonight, _please, no._

“Thomas!” Washington greets brightly as he joins their little circle. “I was hoping you’d make it tonight.” Alex bites his tongue, hard. John is his only true friend, he’s decided. Everyone else can go fuck right off to Paris with _Thomas_. 

Jefferson turns his smile back up a few watts as he turns to address Alex’s boss. “Mr. Washington, sir, you’re looking well.” Washington claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends, which, yes, they are, but still. Alex bristles. 

“Ah, I see you’ve found my soldiers,” Washington observes. He gestures for another brandy from the bartender, before nodding towards Alex. “Lafayette tells me you and Alexander are already well-acquainted.” Traitors, _all of them_. There’s no doubt in Alex’s mind that Washington knows exactly what he’s doing.

“That’s one word for it,” Alex mutters, finally finding his voice and miffed it took this long. If Washington weren’t Washington, he’s sure the man would’ve stepped on his toes, if the look he shoots Alex is anything to go by. 

“Well, I’m glad you are, because” —Alex _swears_ he can hear the whistle as the bomb plummets towards the earth— “the two of you are going to be working together on the new merger between our firms. Your first task in your transition back onto our team,” Washington tells Jefferson. 

The expression on Alex’s face must be the same dumbstruck echo of Jefferson’s. Of course Alex knew about the merger, and the oncoming team member, but— but— Jefferson? It’s _Jefferson?_ Alex is going to have to see his face _every single day?_

There’s a small chorus of “Congratulations!” and “Welcome!” from their little cluster at the news, which Jefferson takes with quickly-recovered thanks, not even looking at Alex, and Alex decides he needs some air. He must still be mid-fall back on those stairs, to justify the ground getting yanked out from under him right now. 

“Excuse me,” he manages, and turns on his heel and walks out. He hears Washington say his name, knows he’ll get a stern talking-to on Monday for ignoring him, but he just lets his feet carry him until he reaches the stairs, and then the lobby, the sounds of the violins and the party melting away behind him. He doesn’t stop until he’s through the front doors and stepping out into the crisp night air. 

He sucks in a deep breath, using one of Herc’s yoga techniques and making sure the oxygen fills all the way to the bottom of his lungs, then exhales, starting from the diaphragm. He does a few breathing cycles before he undoes his ponytail, scraping his shaky fingers through his hair to smooth it before he retwists the elastic. His pleasant buzz has almost completely evaporated, and now he just feels kind of numb, raw in the brisk outdoors, taxis and town cars whizzing by, laughter echoing from the glitzy uptown bars down the street, and he’d left his outer coat back at coat check. 

It was easier when Jefferson was just a name on the other side of an email, not a real life, smart, sharp, _cute_ person, and certainly not when he’s the guy Laf’s been trying to— let’s be honest— set Alex up with this whole time. 

Because— _fuck._ They would be good together, wouldn’t they? They’d certainly never be bored. The sex would probably be mind-blowing.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Alex hisses. 

“For once I agree with you,” he hears from behind him, and he whirls around to find Jefferson standing there on the sidewalk. But Alex must not be quite as sober as he’d thought, because his foot trips over his other foot— or, as he’ll swear later, a crack in the sidewalk had suddenly appeared, there must’ve been a tiny earthquake, it’s not his fault he happened to be on the fault line, he should probably sue the city for negligence of pavement maintenance— and he nearly goes falling to the ground _again_ , before Jefferson reaches out and snags him _again_ , setting him back to rights.

“Is this a common occurrence? Is it an equilibrium thing?” Jefferson asks, and Alex shoves him off. 

“ _No,_ I just—” he cuts himself off, because he doesn’t have a good explanation. “Why are you here?” _Here in D.C., here at this party, here throwing Alex’s life all off-kilter._

Jefferson’s mouth thins. “I— You ran off.”

“I didn’t want to be there anymore.”

“Didn’t want to be around me, you mean.”

Alex scowls, kicks at a crumpled water bottle that hadn’t made its way to a trash can. “Well, why would I? Everyone was patting themselves on the back being in the know about something I _wasn’t_ , and you don’t even like me, so—”

“I don’t not like you.”

Alex freezes. He stares at Jefferson. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t. Don’t tell me what I like or don’t like,” Jefferson snipes, before sighing. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He mercifully doesn’t make a joke about tripping, but the flicker around his eyes tells Alex he’s very much biting his tongue so not to say one. 

“When?” Alex asks instead. “Tonight, or four months ago?”

“Both?” Jefferson shrugs. “Lafayette’s been telling me about you nonstop for the past month, once he figured out about the merger. We have a lot in common, it seems.”

“Why would he even do that, though? Yeah, he’s your friend and he’s my friend, but what does he care if we get along? There are plenty of people he’s friends with that I can barely stand, like Burr—” 

“Probably because _I_ had been talking about you for the three months before _that_ ,” Jefferson huffs. “Jesus, does anyone ever get a word in around you?”

To avoid his little inner freak out about Jefferson’s confession, Alex answers truthfully. “Not usually.” But again, his brain is a little fried so his mouth starts talking before he’s approved what’s coming out. “You talk about me?” 

“ _Yes_ , you little shit.” Now it’s Jefferson’s turn to avoid Alex’s eyes, only he chooses to look up at the buildings that surround them on all sides. Probably a lot different from Paris, or— where did Laf say Thomas was from? Virginia? Alex wonders if the man even likes D.C., if he’s happy to be moving back, why he’s leaving his firm, if he likes pink post-its— “You drive me nuts and your emails are barely coherent most of the time, and you don’t know diddly-squat about navigating international relations, but yes. For some reason you’ve dug yourself a little Hamilton-sized burrow in my head and refuse to leave.”

Alex gapes at him. “Did you just say _‘diddly-squat’_?” 

Jefferson sends his eyes heavenward again, in a _‘lord please help me not strangle this man’_ kind of way, and Alex can’t help it— he smiles. 

“Did you like my card?” he asks, instead of confessing that finding an email from Thomas in his inbox is one of the best moments of his day. 

Thomas must pick up on it anyway, though, because he gets this glint in his eye, the same one from the staircase, and he takes a step closer to Alex on the pavement. “I framed it,” he says. And— _oh._ There’s that ozone again. Alex takes a step of his own. 

“I bought an international stamp for that shit.” Jefferson barks a laugh. “Should’ve sent you an invoice.”

“How about I make it up to you?” Jefferson counters. 

“I could be amenable.” Alex inhales, dives. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks, and Thomas’ eyes light up, sending a thrill down Alex’s spine.

But then they dim again, just as fast. “I have a flight to catch tomorrow, actually,” he says, with a regretful frown, and Alex’s heart sinks. “I have to finish some things up in Paris, start packing up my apartment.”

Alex looks down at his shoes, to hide his face flushing with embarrassment. “Oh, ok. That’s fine, I’ll—”

“But,” Thomas interrupts. “What are you up to now?”

Alex snaps his head up. “Now?” 

Thomas nods, his smile spreading. “I saw an IHOP around the corner on my way here, we could— if you want—”

“That sounds great,” Alex says, quick enough that Thomas’ smile gets a little cat-like. “But, uh, our coats,” he gestures back to the door, then back at Thomas’ suit jacket. “Assuming you have something to cover up that monstrosity, that is. What color even is that? Magenta? I haven’t seen magenta since _Blue’s Clues_ , tell me your coat isn’t, like, canary yellow, someone might try to hail you as a taxi—”

“It’s _fuschia_ , asshole, and I’ll have you know—”

Alex starts laughing before Thomas can finish, and a beat later Thomas joins in, and they turn to go back in and get their things, where they’ll have to suffer Lafayette’s victorious grin and not-so-subtle high five with Washington, before they’ll head to IHOP and probably debate about pancakes vs crepes, or the best syrup in the caddy, which is _strawberry,_ duh, who even uses the boysenberry one, what even _is_ a boysenberry— when Alex’s _fucking shoe_ snags on the threshold of the doorframe and he almost goes sprawling across the lobby floor until Thomas yet again reaches out and plucks him from his doom. 

“Good catch,” Alex huffs, his cheeks pinking. 

Thomas smiles, that same smile from the steps, when they’d first met, _really_ met, Alex and Thomas, not Hamilton and Jefferson, and Alex’s heart does its flippy thing again. Thomas’ hand travels from Alex’s bicep to his elbow, to his wrist, then to his hand, where he twines his fingers in Alex’s. 

“Yes, you are.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> lafayette, spotting hamilton standing on a desk, probably: he likes to be tall
> 
> also honestly who uses the boysenberry syrup.
> 
> (i don’t own hamilton etc etc, comments & kudos always appreciated!!!!)


End file.
